


The Arsonist

by RainyMeadows



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room, Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Arson, Backstory, First Meetings, Foster Care, Gap Filler, Gen, Good Parent Hershel Layton, I mean it's only discussion of arson but, Prison, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25377187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyMeadows/pseuds/RainyMeadows
Summary: After being invited to a juvenile detention centre for a talk, Professor Hershel Layton can't help noticing the only boy to have taken an interest, and can't help hoping to save this boy from his terrible situation. Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole.
Relationships: Alfendi Layton & Hershel Layton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52





	The Arsonist

“So then,” the Professor said to the class, holding up the fossil for everyone to see. “Based on what we’ve all discussed so far, who can tell me what we’re all looking at?”

Nobody responded.

Hershel found it difficult to hide his disappointment. At least thirty boys in this class and not a single one of them wanted to dignify him with a reply?

Thankfully, before one of the guards could point someone out to answer, a little hand appeared over the heads of the students.

“Yes,” said Hershel, pointing him out. “You there.”

It was a skinny little redhead towards the left side of the class, legs swinging free under his chair and face rounded by puppy fat. If he didn’t know any better, Hershel would have assumed the boy was the youngest in the class. Perhaps even the youngest in the entire detention centre.

“It’s a scorpion tail,” he said.

“Absolutely correct,” the Professor replied, “and can you tell me why it looks the way it does?”

Again, every boy in the class avoided eye contact.

“Perhaps you should-”

Before he had a chance to offer the fossil to the boys to examine and pass around, Warden McLoughlin stepped forward and ushered him back, shaking his head.

Much as it filled him with dismay, Hershel understood. These were juvenile offenders, after all. There was no telling what any one of these boys would be capable of if provided with something like this, fossil or not.

The same small redhead raised his hand, and the Professor nodded to him for his answer.

“It’s opalized,” the boy said. “Turned into opal.”

“That’s correct!” Hershel replied. “Quite a rare phenomenon and a spectacular find for any archaeologist worth their salt. I feel extremely lucky to be able to hold this in my hands, let alone show it to all of you.”

He gently rested the opalized scorpion tail back in the little padded bag he had retrieved it from.

When he looked up, the redhead had raised his hand again.

“You have a question, Foster?” asked Warden McLoughlin.

The small boy – Foster, apparently – took a moment to shoot the warden a poisonous glare.

“Couldn’t it just be an opal someone carved to look like a scorpion tail?” he asked.

Hershel took a moment to allow the inmate’s question due respect.

“I can understand why you would consider that to be a possibility,” he responded, “but you may be interested to know that I was present for the dig where this fossil was discovered. Not only that, but when it was found, it was still connected to the rest of the scorpion, which had yet to opalize. Were it not for my associate’s clumsiness, it still would be connected. So while your concern is appreciated, I’m afraid it’s rather misplaced.”

Foster’s face fell into another annoyed scowl as the boys around him sniggered, and one of those beside him elbowed him in the arm.

“Well, I’m sure we’ve all learned something valuable,” Warden McLoughlin spoke up, “but I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today’s class. Care to give Professor Layton your thanks, boys?”

The inmates replied with embarrassed mumbles of thanks.

Warden McLoughlin sighed in annoyed disappointment.

“Very well,” he groaned. “I can tell that’s as good as we’re going to get. Officer O’Leary, Officer Donnelly, if you could escort the class back to their cells?”

Hershel picked up his briefcase full of artefacts and found his way out of the classroom, the door held open for him by the warden, as the boys rose from their chairs in glum silence.

“Sorry about that,” the warden sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s hard enough getting young people interested in education these days _without_ them being a bunch of vandals and thieves.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, Warden McLoughlin,” Hershel replied with a polite tip of his hat. “That was hardly the quietest or most awkward class I’ve ever ended up teaching.”

“I know,” said Warden McLoughlin, “but you know what these kinds of boys are like…”

He trailed off, and he and the Professor took a step back from the door as the students filed out of the classroom one by one.

“They think they know everything there is to know,” the warden continued in hushed tones. “Think that because they’ve been arrested one time, they’ve topped in terms of world experience and this is all they need for the rest of their lives. Give them five years and at least half this class will’ve graduated to big boy prison!”

His laughter made Hershel’s skin crawl, and he hoped that wasn’t too apparent.

This man was seriously laughing at the idea of young people falling into a life of crime. The mere thought of such a callous mindset turned Hershel’s stomach. Yes, this hadn’t been the opportunity to get young offenders invested in education that he had been promised it would be, but what kind of person insulted underprivileged youths who were passing right by him?

He watched the boys file past as the warden kept talking, throwing out insults that Hershel did his best to tune out. He could only hope that none of them paid this cruel man any attention.

As the inmates were ushered down the corridor, the Professor noticed the small redhead – Foster, if he recalled correctly – who had been the one to have answered the vast majority of the questions Hershel had presented to the class. He walked hunched over, hands hanging by his hips as though longing for pockets to bury them in, and gazed at the floor as he wandered.

The boy behind him reached up and flicked his ear.

It was all the Professor could do not to wince at the sight. That _had_ to be painful, yet Foster didn’t show any response.

The boy behind him flicked his ear again, then glanced back and sniggered at the boy walking behind him.

Hershel gritted his teeth in frustration at the sight. He knew Warden McLoughlin wasn’t paying any attention to these so-called offenders, but why hadn’t the guards noticed this blatant display of bullying?

Then again, he wouldn’t put it past them to care as little about these boys as the warden did.

Hershel saw Foster glance back for a moment, but it was clear he wasn’t looking at the boy who was flicking his ear.

He was watching the guard.

The Professor frowned. What was this boy thinking?

“…and he couldn’t even afford a lawyer!” he heard Warden McLoughlin say. “Isn’t that outrageous?”

Hershel frowned. Whatever this callous man had just said, he didn’t want to validate his beliefs. He was far more concerned with the small redhead getting flicked behind his ear.

“Donnelly,” he went on. “Do you think it’s ridiculous that these delinquent’s families would get so angry for them when they can’t afford lawyers?”

That was when it happened.

The moment the guard looked away from the inmates filing down the corridor, Foster lashed out. His elbow slammed into the other boy’s head. The boy stumbled and clutched his ear. In seconds, Foster was upon him and the inmates surrounded the brawl, shouting and jeering.

“Get him, Harvey! Rip him to shreds!”

“The nuts, Ratty! Hit him in the nuts!”

“Tear that titchy bastard up!”

“Punch him, Ratty!”

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

“Boys, _stop it!_ ” Hershel could only stand there, stunned, as Warden McLoughlin started pulling the boys away from the scrum. “Donnelly, O’Leary, do what you’re paid for!”

The guards pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, which quickly quietened at their intervention and parted enough for the Professor to see what had happened. The two boys hung in the guards’ arms; the larger boy, Harvey, was scratched on his forehead and cheeks and the redheaded Foster had a trickle of blood on his chin. Harvey simply stood in silence while Foster writhed and kicked and struggled to escape the guard’s grip.

“Alright.” Warden McLoughlin set his hands on his hips. “Who wants to tell me what happened here?”

And just like that, chaos began to make a comeback.

“It was Ratty!”

“Ratty Foster started it! He punched Harvey in the face!”

“Look at that feral little bastard!”

“Just get Ratty out of here!”

“He tried to bite my throat out last week!”

Hershel clenched a fist and had to remind himself that a gentleman doesn’t make a scene in public. That boy couldn’t be any more than ten years old, yet every single one of these inmates had turned on him?

“With all due respect, Warden McLoughlin,” he said, stepping forward so that everyone could see him, “I had noticed that young Harvey here was flicking Foster on the ear.”

Foster snarled in his direction, and the Professor tried his best to ignore it.

“Perhaps his reaction was a little too much,” he went on, “but Harvey is hardly what I would call innocent in this situation.”

The small redhead finally stopped struggling.

“Is this true?” the warden demanded.

The larger boy frowned quietly down at the floor.

“Never mind,” sighed Warden McLoughlin. “You two should know not to do this by now. It’s solitary for both of you. And the rest of you…”

He levelled a stern finger at the rest of the inmates as the two boys were dragged away.

“…if you don’t want to join them, you’ll go back to your cells without any further trouble. Is that understood?”

Hershel leaned past the warden to watch the redhead being dragged away.

The boy was able to cast a glance back at him in the moments before he was pulled around the corner.

* * *

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” said the warden. “It’s very likely he won’t listen to a single word you say.”

“I won’t know that if I don’t try,” Hershel pointed out. “He seemed willing to listen to me during my talk earlier. What’s to stop him from listening to me now?”

“He was behaving himself because officers Donnelly and O’Leary were there!” Warden McLoughlin argued back. “You don’t have any idea what this boy could do if you put yourself alone in a tiny room with him!”

“With all due respect, Warden McLoughlin,” Hershel said with a proud smile, “I would hardly call myself out of shape. Believe me; I wouldn’t have any trouble whatsoever fending off an attack from such a small boy.”

The warden sighed and shook his head.

“Any other boy, perhaps,” he said, “but you’ve surely never met the likes of Foster. The boy’s an _animal,_ Professor. He won’t listen to a word you say, no matter how many times you say it, and if you put even one toe out of line in there or offer him even a little bit of leeway, he’ll scratch your eyes out!”

They came to a halt outside the solitary cell.

“I understand your position, my good man,” said Hershel, “but I’d prefer to judge young Foster’s attitudes for myself, if you would be so kind.”

He fixed Warden McLoughlin with the sternest look he could manage.

And to his relief, the warden extracted his keys and approached the door.

“I can see I won’t change your mind,” he said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Holler for the guards if he gives you any trouble.”

The lock gave a small _click_ and Warden McLoughlin held the door open.

With one last nod of acknowledgement, Hershel ducked through the doorway and stepped into the cell.

The small redhead sat in the corner of the bed set against the wall, curled into a ball and hugging his knees to his chest. He glared at the Professor from under the messy mop of his hair, following his movements with his eyes as Hershel sat down on the bed.

“Good afternoon, young man,” Hershel said cordially. “I hope the guard wasn’t too rough with you earlier. Getting dragged around like that couldn’t possibly have been comfortable.”

The boy didn’t reply, save for a slow blink.

“I must say,” Hershel went on, looking around the cell, “these quarters feel awfully cramped. I understand that this is a solitary confinement cell, but even a young offender needs to be able to stretch his legs a little. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He offered the young boy a smile.

Foster still didn’t reply.

Hershel’s smile slipped away. He felt almost as though he was trying to coax an angry kitten out of a hole in the wall.

“Listen,” he said, “I understand your suspicion of me. You must have seen me with Warden McLoughlin and assumed that I share his views on you and your fellow inmates. Allow me to be the first to state, as firmly as possible, that I do _not._ As a matter of fact, I find his attitude deplorable.”

“Then why were you getting so chummy with him?”

Hershel’s heart soared. Finally, a response!

“Well, that’s because I’m a gentleman,” he replied, giving the boy a tip of his hat. “And even to a man he doesn’t like, a gentleman should always show due respect.”

Foster lifted his head ever so slightly. His frown was far too fearsome for a face so round and innocent-looking.

“But the warden’s an _arse,_ ” he complained. “He told me to my face I should’ve got five years rather than two. And you saw how ready he was to believe I attacked Harvey for no reason!”

Hmm, best not to mention the foul language right now. Hershel could tell he would only make an enemy if he told this boy not to curse while he was still so withdrawn.

“I noticed what he was doing to you,” he said. “How’s your ear?”

The redhead unwrapped one arm from around his legs and gently rubbed on his ear.

“Hurts a little,” he replied, “but I’m used to it by now. It’s like a game with these twats. Whoever stands behind me in line gets to flick my ear, step on my heels, bump into me and try to knock me over, whatever they can manage that they can deny or pass off as an accident.”

He hugged himself even tighter than before.

“And the warden allows this?” asked Hershel.

“The warden doesn’t give a shit!” the boy snapped. “I thought you’d have seen that by now!”

Hershel frowned.

“Your frustration is understandable,” he said, “but I would appreciate it if you didn’t cuss at me. Does using such foul language win you any favours with the officers here? Or with your fellow inmates?”

The boy scowled at the floor.

“…no,” he mumbled.

The Professor’s heart ached at the sight. He found himself thinking back to the first time he had met the ten-year-old Luke. The poor boy had been so sullen, so cut off from the world, so thoroughly convinced that he couldn’t trust anybody around him…

…and here was this young man who truly _was_ cut off from the world.

Hershel shuffled a little closer to him.

“What’s your name, my boy?” he asked. “I understand that your surname is Foster-”

“No it isn’t.”

The sudden snap almost left Hershel speechless.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked. “Warden McLoughlin told me-”

“Warden McLoughlin doesn’t care sh- doesn’t care _squat_ about me,” the boy replied bitterly. “Foster isn’t my name. Not my actual name, at least. It’s a description. A designation.”

Dull green eyes fixed Hershel with a steely glare.

“I’m not Foster,” he stated. “I’m _a_ foster. That’s the system I’m in. I’m one of those kids what’s not good enough for anyone to adopt. They only called me Foster ‘coz the twats what abandoned me at the hospital didn’t think to leave a surname for me to go by, got it?”

Hershel gave him a patient nod.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

The boy’s fingers tightened on his legs.

“In which case,” the Professor went on, “what would you like me to call you? I can’t imagine Ratty would be your real name. Not even a parent who abandoned you would be _that_ cruel.”

The boy’s glare faltered.

His eyes closed. He loosened his grip, ever so lightly, and straightened up a little from the tight ball he had been curled into.

“Alfendi,” he said softly. “My name’s Alfendi.”

Hershel tried not to smile. Thank goodness he was making progress.

“Do you have any idea why the other boys pick on you, Alfendi?” he asked. “You must at least have some idea why they call you Ratty.”

“It’s ‘coz I’m small,” said Alfendi. “I’m small and my hair looks like rat tails. I’m small and I’m _there_ and the guards don’t give a cra- a crud about inmates picking on each other.”

“I confess that you do appear to be one of the youngest people I’ve ever seen behind bars. Just how old are you, Alfendi?”

“Eleven.”

“And how long have you been an inmate here?”

“Almost a year.”

The Professor tried not to show how taken aback he was.

“You were sent to prison at _ten years old?_ ” he gasped.

“Yup,” Alfendi said angrily. “Bloody legend, right?”

Hershel couldn’t help but frown. He couldn’t be sure if it were restricted to Ireland or applied to the rest of Britain, but he hadn’t even known it was possible for a person to be _tried_ at such a young age, let alone sent to prison.

Thank goodness he and his friends had kept to the legal kinds of mayhem when they were young.

“And might I ask,” he said cautiously, “what crime a ten-year-old boy could commit that would leave him with a prison sentence?”

Alfendi uncurled himself a little further.

“You want to know?” he asked. “You really, _really_ want to know?”

“Well, yes,” said Hershel. “I wouldn’t have bothered to ask if I didn’t.”

The boy leaned forward to look at the door. Checking to see that it was shut, it seemed. There were no windows in it, or any openings save for a slot for delivering food, but Hershel got the impression that Warden McLoughlin might be listening in on their conversation.

Sure enough, Alfendi beckoned Hershel closer, and as the Professor leaned in, the boy gave him a positively devilish grin.

“I set my school on fire.”

He leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

Hershel simply adjusted his hat.

“And?” he asked.

The boy’s face twisted in bafflement.

“Wh- you want _more?!_ ” he demanded.

“Admittedly, yes,” said Hershel. “Surely there must have been a reason for it. You seem to me like a rather intelligent young boy, if a little aggressive-”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“My apologies. Would you care to explain why you felt the need to, as you phrased it, set your school on fire?”

He shuffled one leg onto the bed, trying to sit in a more comfortable position.

“What scale of a fire did you set?” he asked. “Was it purposeful or no? Did you accidentally knock over a Bunsen burner during your science class and set light to your books? Or did you splash a carpet with gasoline with intent to destroy the entire building?”

Alfendi kept staring at him in confusion.

“I apologise for prying,” said Hershel, “but I’m curious as to the sort of damage a boy such as yourself would – or indeed, _could_ – be responsible for.”

He offered the boy a smile.

“You see, Alfendi,” he went on, “I have a friend who is… goodness, he’d be around eighteen by now, but when we first met, he was the same age you were when you began your term here. He wasn’t as violent as you seem to present yourself as, but he was certainly equally as morose and withdrawn. He has since become a cheerful, sociable, and well-adjusted young man. With that in mind…”

He shifted his other leg onto the bed, conveying to Alfendi that he wanted to see eye-to-eye.

“…I’m curious to know the extent of your crime,” he said, “if you would be comfortable telling me, of course.”

Alfendi kept staring at him.

The poor boy looked positively dumbfounded, and in spite of the friendly smile he was offering, Hershel felt fury boiling in his stomach. How long had it been since anybody had shown this child even the slightest little piece of kindness or respect?

He sat and waited. He didn’t want to make any sudden movements that Alfendi might interpret as a threat.

Finally, to his relief, the redhead shuffled in place and relaxed, sitting cross-legged just as the Professor did.

“Fine,” he said. “If you really want to know, then fine.”

He huffed through his nose.

“The teachers would never admit it,” he said, “but the last school I went to had a smoking problem. Boys would sneak into the toilets any chance they got to light up a fag or two. Or three. Or fifty, if you wanted to go by the smell. And it _did_ smell. I don’t know why nobody ever tried to stop it. The whole room bloody _reeked_ and I had to hold my breath every time I needed to go!”

“Good lord,” sighed Hershel. “And these were boys your age? I assume the eldest must have been around twelve at most!”

“You assume right,” Alfendi groaned. “Age range was eight to eleven, save the few twats what’d been held back a year. I told at least three different teachers about it and nothing ever happened. Trust me, okay? You couldn’t bloody _breathe_ in there.”

Hershel nodded in understanding.

“So you took matters into your own hands,” he concluded.

Alfendi pinched his brow in exasperation.

“Took me about two weeks,” he said, “but I memorised which lockers belonged to the boys what were the worst. Brought a binbag from home, waited until PE class and faked a twisted ankle to get out. Got into their bags and took everything smoking-related I could find. Every cigarette, every lighter, every matchbox and matchbook. There was even one kid who had a bag of baccy and papers!”

“Good _grief,_ ” Hershel muttered, quietly bemoaning the state of today’s youth.

“And once I had all I could get,” said Alfendi, “I piled it all into a bin in their favourite toilets and lit it up.”

He’d set fire to a heaping mound of cigarettes…

“…I imagine that didn’t exactly work wonders in terms of the smell,” Hershel said numbly.

Alfendi sighed and dug a hand into his hair.

“The smoke got into the vent system,” he explained, “and spread it all over the building. Set off the alarms and the whole place had to be evacuated. Five kids had asthma attacks. Nine others had panic attacks. Since I was the only one who’d ever spoken up about the smoking, it didn’t take long for ‘em to figure it was me.”

He slumped his hand into his lap.

“I was given a choice of two years’ juvie or five years’ community service,” he said, “and since I ain’t interested in picking up litter ‘til I’m fifteen…”

He gestured to the cell they were sitting in.

Hershel took a moment to decide what he should say. He cradled his chin in thought, eyes wandering idly down to the bed.

“I do hope you understand,” he said, “that I would only need to talk to Warden McLoughlin to know if you were lying or not.”

“I know,” Alfendi spat. “That’s why I didn’t lie.”

A two-year sentence…

“So you still have another year to go before you’re released?” Hershel asked for clarification.

“Yes, that’s how numbers work,” Alfendi responded. “Ten plus two is twelve. Congratulations, you passed year three maths. What do you want, a cookie?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Hershel, “but I do want to know how you’ll be able to cope with another entire year of what I saw in the corridor just now.”

Alfendi shrugged.

“If I’ve put up with it this long,” he said, “I can take another thirteen months of it.”

“But that’s frightfully unfair,” Hershel objected. “You seem to be a very smart and perceptive young boy. If everything you’ve told me is true, then a mind like yours is _wasted_ on juvenile detention.”

The boy gave him a mirthless laugh.

“Too bad,” he chuckled coldly. “I’m not getting any parole, so as soon as I get out of this dumpster fire, I’ll be right back into being bounced around between arseholes who don’t want me! Who knows? Maybe my next family will hold onto me for _more_ than nine months!”

Hershel watched the boy laugh to himself about his terrible situation.

A memory flashed through his mind.

A memory of a white mask and stole, of Luke being pushed out of a blast of fire, of the pent-up rage and bitterness that had only begun to settle a few short years ago…

_“Let the world burn for all I care!”_

Those words rang in his ears like an echo.

The last time he had seen the man who had spoken them, he had been bidding him goodbye with a cheerful smile and gently spooning warm porridge into his waiting niece’s mouth.

It took mere moments for the Professor to come to a decision.

“Alfendi.”

“Yeah, what?”

“You and I both know that a sundial is the timepiece with the least moving parts. What is the timepiece that has the most?”

Alfendi took a moment to think, stroking his chin almost like Hershel did.

“An hourglass,” he replied. “What with the sand and all.”

“Very good,” said Hershel. “Now can you tell me what the year 1961 has in common with the year 6009?”

The boy frowned, still stroking his chin.

“They both look the same when you read ‘em upside down,” he said.

“Correct,” Hershel replied cheerfully. “Now let’s imagine that you’re calling for your dog, which is on the other side of a river. The dog crosses the river to you, but it doesn’t get wet, nor does it use a bridge or a boat. How could this be possible?”

“The river’s frozen!” Alfendi almost shouted. “What the hell are you giving me these riddles for?!”

Hershel couldn’t help but smile.

“You say that you have a little over a year before you get released,” he said. “That’s what you said, is it not?”

“That’s right,” Alfendi said, eyeing the Professor with scepticism. “What’s it matter to you?”

The Professor adjusted his hat again as he got up from the bed.

“Thank you very much for this talk, Alfendi,” he said, and he knocked on the cell door. “Try to remember it for the remainder of your sentence. We _will_ see one-another again.”

With the boy frowning at him in confusion, Hershel stepped out of the cell.

Warden McLoughlin barely waited until he was through the doorway before slamming that door closed and locking it.

“I don’t know what he said to you,” the man spluttered, “but the boy’s an animal and you shouldn’t trust a word he tells you!”

Hershel decided not to dignify that statement.

“Warden McLoughlin?”

“Yes, Professor?”

He looked up at the balding man with a smile.

“Could you please provide me with more details on Alfendi Foster?” he requested. “I’d like to get in contact with his case worker.”

* * *

The chatter of the airport lobby blurred into white noise around the Professor as he stood at the gate.

An entire year since they had first met…

Hopefully Alfendi wouldn’t have forgotten his appearance. He liked to think that his hat in particular was rather distinctive and memorable.

He straightened that hat as he waited, and he thought back to the rest of the family waiting back at home. Katrielle had been overjoyed at the prospect of getting a big brother. Flora had been hesitant, especially after learning the boy was a convicted arsonist, but Hershel’s comparison of Alfendi to her uncle had done wonders to soften her up to the idea.

Des, meanwhile, had remained unaware of that comparison. He seemed under the impression that Alfendi would be closer in personality to Luke, or perhaps even Flora.

Hershel couldn’t help but smile at the thought. If the boy had remained true to himself during his incarceration, there was no telling how Des might respond to him.

“Professor! Over here!”

He looked up.

There, standing behind a middle-aged blonde woman in a suit who waved at him with a smile, was Alfendi. He seemed to have gained an inch or two in height since the last time the Professor had seen him, the puppy fat in his cheeks had smoothened down and his hair had grown longer and messier. It fell about his eyes in an untidy mop.

Those eyes widened with amazement when they landed on Hershel, who straightened up and tipped his hat at the boy and his case worker.

“Delightful to see you again, Ms Sullivan,” he said happily. “The same to you, Alfendi.”

“Professor, I told you before!” Ms Sullivan giggled. “Please just call me Ivy!”

Alfendi just stared at the Professor.

“I assume you can handle things from here?” asked the case worker.

“Absolutely,” said Hershel. “Thank you for bringing him all this way.”

“It’s no trouble at all!” Ms Sullivan replied. “Please be a good boy, Alfendi! Good luck!”

“…thanks…” Alfendi replied numbly without looking in her direction.

He didn’t so much as glance to his side as Ms Sullivan made her way back to the gate.

“Alfendi?” Hershel said. “Is something the matter?”

The boy blinked at him.

“…you…” he said softly. “…you _waited_ for me.”

“Of course I did,” Hershel replied. “A gentleman always keeps a promise, especially one that he makes to a child.”

Alfendi blinked again.

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

“Oh dear,” said the Professor. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Alfendi blurted out, then caught himself and shrank back. “No, i-it’s nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Hershel smiled at the preteen’s shyness.

“Very well,” he said, and reached for Alfendi’s suitcase. “Come along then. Your new sisters and uncle are extremely excited to meet you.”

“Sisters? _Uncle?!_ ”

“Have no fear, Alfendi. We’ll have plenty of room soon. I’m absolutely positive that they’re going to love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> LEVEL-5: (doesn't explain where Alfendi came from or why he looks nothing like his father)
> 
> Me, donning the Fanfic Gauntlet: Fine. I'll do it myself.


End file.
